


In Your Hands

by likechoonee



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, they're idiots your honor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likechoonee/pseuds/likechoonee
Summary: [...]“You will train more than any knight of any kingdom. You’ll go through the trials. The very few who survive will become witchers. Those who do will learn what true pain is. Get used to it.”Everything goes too fast, and too slow at the same time, trees and rain and life too blurry to make out the shapes of them. He remembers those words now, clear as day, and it's not related to the gaping wound on his thigh.[...]Or,[...]Jaskier's heart nearly stops twice in the morning. First, when he hears the door bang open. He comes back to life, though, when he turns and sees Geralt, apparently alive, standing in the doorframe.The second time his heart stops is when Geralt limps through the door and falls unconscious on the floor, a small pool of blood slowly growing under him.[...]Or,Two separate times where Geralt gets hurt, and Jaskier stitches him back together. The first one, he leaves. The second one, he’s forgiven.Or,What if I mixed a sickfic with a fix-it... and made it very loooong
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 30
Kudos: 215
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	In Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for the Geraskier Reverse Bang! Inspired by [this](https://chunilikeswitchers.tumblr.com/post/643884896446758912/wonderful-art-piece-for-the-geraskier-reverse) art of my artist Wreckmore! It was a pleasure to work with you!  
> Enjoy!

_After dropping the key three times, like the unmistakable fool he is, Jaskier finally unlocks the front door._

_“Home, sweet home!” He cringes at the high pitch and lets Geralt move inside._

_And what a home it is. He still remembers when he bought this little cottage by the coast three years ago. He was forced to bargain for around a week with the previous owner, a retired professor who wanted to move out of Oxenfurt. Not fast enough, it seemed, given the absurd amount of money she demanded for the property. Had he been an average mortal, he would’ve given up and looked for another place to buy. But he wasn’t an average mortal_ _\- he was dangerously stubborn. And he didn’t want any other place._

_It had taken him a week to rip it out of her hands at a reasonable price. One week, a basket full of baked goods, four songs and a ten-pages-long essay detailing why he was the most qualified person to take care of the cottage. A hardship. But honestly, it was all worth it in the end._

_The cottage wasn’t big in any way, but it’s just the perfect size for him. Big enough to live in and small enough so he doesn’t have to worry about cleaning something the size of a mansion. In the past, he would have recoiled at such simplicity. Would have aimed for a life in court, to live in huge palaces and to surround himself in goods, fine silks and food. Now, older, he can’t help but think that there is something in that cottage that is so inherently… Jaskier. In the flowers that grow on the sides, in the vines crawling up the walls, in the way the light shines through the windows at sunset. A quiet place amongst the chaos of the city._

_It’s beautiful._

_It only took a witcher and 5 minutes to start doubting said beauty._

_Geralt looks comically large there, and he feels stupidly bare as the witcher observes his little space. As if he could stare into his naked soul by just ogling his house. Maybe he can. He hopes it's enough._

_And thus, he can’t help but wonder. Wonder if this is all he’ll ever be able to provide, only the bare necessities. Wonders how different their relationship would be if destiny had other plans for him, plans of greatness and magic and power. Wonders if Geralt would ever treat him with more respect should he have provided him with mansions, riches and spells, instead of a tiny cottage, watered stew and stitching. Wonders if he was ever anything more than a bard, if he could have more than a friendship with a man who doesn’t even call him his friend._

_Wonders if he would ever deserve more._

_Maybe if he took his place as viscount, he would._

_“...skier. Jaskier.”_

_He finds himself broken out of his trance. He’s still standing under the doorframe. “Huh?! Oh! Yes, my dear?”_

_“Where do I…”_

_“Oh! Yes!” Jaskier feels himself blushing. His hand shakes a little when he closes the door behind him. “I’m being a terrible host, aren’t I?”_

_Geralt only shrugs. “I had worse.”_

_“Irrelevant. Come, I’ll show you to your room.”_

_The room on itself is bare and impersonal, and Jaskier makes a mental note to buy at least some paintings or decorative pillows for it in the future. There are a few book piles and towers here and there, functioning more as a storage room, but he never used it for its intended purpose, and the few times he had guests over they slept in his own bed. With him. And they didn't sleep that much, either. Still, he cleans the guest room regularly as much as he cleans the rest of the house. Otherwise, it remains untouched._

_Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, though. He drops his bags unceremoniously on the bed and starts preparing his witcher things for today’s witchering. A contract big enough for the people in Oxenfurt to put up an ad in each town around the city. A convenient contract, too. Jaskier was heading to Oxenfurt anyway, winter drawing nearer each time the moon rises. So they went to Oxenfurt together, Geralt took up the contract, and once he finished it he would go on his merry way to the mysterious witcher keep and Jaskier himself would stay in the city to take up teaching for the winter._

_As much as he liked the idea of a powerful mind controlling beast, and the song potential he could find in the fight, Geralt made it very clear that-_

_“You can’t come with me,” as he starts rummaging in his bag, he spats for almost the fiftieth time since they got to Oxenfurt. Jaskier frowns. He hasn’t even asked this time._

_“I know.”_

_“I’m serious.”_

_“I know.” Geralt half turns from what he’s doing to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “What? Yesterday you spent the whole time babbling about how vicious the beast is, that you needed to be focused, that you couldn’t be distracted, blah blah blah. It’s the most you ever talked this month and it was all about the dangers of the hunt, and about our impending doom, shall I accompany you on it.”_

_“Hm…” F flat. Unconvinced hum. Great._

_It’s fine. He doesn’t really need to explain himself. Explain that for the first time in years he feels embarrassed of his house and his life and himself. The last thing he can do for him is not bother him while he’s hunting._

_He sighs. It’s a sitting-down-in-the-bathtub day, it seems._

_They don’t touch the topic for the rest of the day and their routine doesn’t change much, despite the change of scenery. They have a late lunch at Jaskier’s favourite tavern, Geralt buys a few supplies. On the way back, Jaskier keeps on chattering, Geralt pretends he’s listening and eventually, when they return to the cottage, they reach the point where, if Geralt hadn’t had taken a contract, they would kill time playing gwent._

_But Geralt has, in fact, taken on a contract._

_Jaskier watches as Geralt gets Roach from where she’s been tied up, upset that she’s been interrupted from munching Jaskier’s flowers. His bags and swords waiting for him at the front door. And he wastes no time in gearing up and getting on Roach again. Jaskier pats the mare’s neck, receiving a gentle huff in return. “Bring him back to me,” he thinks and prays that Roach takes on the hint. If he’s worried by the fact that he can’t be there if Geralt needs him, then nobody notices._

_"Tell me again?"_

_Geralt sighs. "Half a day of travel, half a day to kill the fiend. I should be back by tomorrow, in the afternoon. Maybe early in the night.”_

_“And if you don’t?”_

_“Then I died.”_

_“Peachy. How high are the chances of me successfully reaching Kaer Morhen to tell your fellow witchers that you’re dead?”_

_“Zero.” Geralt smirks. Jaskier snorts and rolls his eyes._

_And off he goes. And Jaskier watches him ride away until he’s not visible anymore as he fidgets with the keys of his tiny, tiny little home._

* * *

Peace is a foreign concept for witchers, Geralt included. Each day is filled with some kind of hardship. It’s all about survival, from the complexity of hunting a monster to the simple tasks like finding something to eat. There will always be an obstacle to overcome. Eventually, with the help of time and people he met, he's come to learn how to find little bits of calmness in the small things,like the smell of warm bread, leaving town with his coin bag full, or the stillness of the forest. 

Soft strumming at night in front of the fire.

He takes what he can from the little good things in his life, and he cherishes them. Most of the time, at least. Still, he thinks, nothing can compare to the peace he feels blooming and expanding in his chest as he watches Ciri sleep. Her hair tangled all across the pillow making her look like a lion, her forehead free from the frown she carries everyday like a crown, the way she mouths silent words as she dreams. For the first time in weeks, it seems to be a nice dream.

Deep down he knows. Neither he nor Yennefer are cut for the job - their kind isn’t made for parenthood. They’re both too rough and this is too new, having to raise a child they don’t really know. They were taught a hundred ways to bring death with a flick of their hand. They were made for power, not for love. But by the gods, he loves her. He loves her so much he thinks he could die. She's his daughter. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to admit it, but when he thinks of her he doesn't see her as another princess he's come to save. She's his daughter, and he will die before he lets anyone touch a single hair of her head.

They’ve led rough lives, and had rough childhoods. Their hearts are too hardened by trauma. And he curses himself everyday for not being there when she needed him the most, but Ciri has her own amount of trauma too. Still a part of him wishes she could fall asleep to something other than sheer exhaustion. She needs to fall asleep to stories where the hero always wins in the end, needs to fall asleep to lullabies and melodies. 

He sighs. Maybe he needs that too.

“You’ll wake her up with all your staring,” Yen says from the floor as she uses the only chair in the room as an improvised desk to write… whatever she’s writing. In past times, he would have growled at her for that remark. Now, though, he knows she means no harm.

“What are you writing?”

“Letters. You grab paper, you write on it and then you send it to someone. I can teach you someday.”

“Hilarious." Only because he can only see her back and she can't see him, he rolls his eyes at him.

That is also new. Somewhere in the months after finding Yen again, they had come to a sort of arrangement. They’re friends, connected by destiny and the closest thing Ciri has to parental figures, but that’s all. Whatever bond he forced between them with his wish is still there and will never change, but the love story they both longed for but couldn’t find in each other is over. For the kid’s sake. For their sake, too. After all, not all bonds are forged with romantic love. 

“Is that for your girlfriend?” Geralt asks, trying to sound very casual. He fails enormously.

Yen turns around to stare at him, squinting her eyes. “Can you at least act like a grown up from time to time, please?”

“Just asking.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs and goes back to her writing. “This one is for Triss.”

He definitely doesn’t smirk. Not at all. He's a grown up after all. “So I was right," he says smirking.

“Fuck you, Rivia.”

“Buy me dinner first,” he says, and she snorts. "But I don't think Triss would like that. How is she doing, by the way?"

"She's in a safehouse with a few other sorceresses. They're hiding and recovering, and she insists that it's the safest place they could be."

"Good," he smiles. His time with Triss was limited, but even though they're not as close with her as Yen is, he's glad to know she's safe. “Who's the other letter for?”

She pauses, pressing her lips in a thin line. “A friend,” she answers after a while without turning around. Geralt frowns.

“Who?” He repeats, growling this time. 

"I can't tell you."

He stands up this time and Yen finally turns to him. “You can write to whoever the fuck you want, but if you're giving up information about us-”

“It’s safe.”

“-or about _Ciri,_ I need to know who.”

“It’s…!” Ciri stirs in her sleep and both of them freeze. Her adorable nose scrunches in a way that makes Geralt’s old heart melt. She turns to the other side, going back to sleep and both of them breathe again. Yennefer sighs and says, quieter this time: “It’s safe. No, I can’t tell you who it is. I promised I wouldn’t tell and you know I always keep my promises. And I promise you, Geralt of Rivia, that neither of us will ever meet someone as loyal as this person.”

He lowers his gaze, sitting again at the edge of the bed. Logically, he knows he can trust her. Yen's been nothing but trustworthy since they found each other again, especially with Cirilla. But he can't help that primal instinct he feels regarding the lion cub's safety; that need to fight anything and everything with nails and teeth in order to protect her. She will always be his priority number one. And he’ll do anything to protect her.

Yen startles him by placing a hand in his knee, twisting on the ground to reach him. His eyes meet hers and he searches in there for any clue or sign that she’s lying. He finds none. "You know I rather die than do anything that could possibly harm that little beast, Geralt."

Geralt sighs and nods. Yes, he knows that.

A bard downstairs starts playing the lute and Geralt's world stops for a whole minute. A minute where he closes his eyes and hyper-focuses his senses on the sound. 

It’s impossible to pinpoint the smell of the musician. There’s too many people downstairs, and they’re too far away, so he focuses his hearing instead. He listens to the vibrations resonating in the instrument, tries to guess if the strings are made of sheep or goat, searches in his memory for some kind of resemblance to the style and rhythm of the fingers gently strumming across the strings, tries to figure out if the lute is elven made.

Then the bard starts to sing, and it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. The voice is too hoarse and untrained. It lacks the professionalism and the technique of a bard who sang for over three decades. That special and almost magical little something that hypnotizes anyone who listens. It’s not-

“You’re pouting.” He hears the smirk in her voice.

“Fuck you,” he mumbles and looks to his feet.

“Buy me dinner first.” With a candle, Yen sets the letters on fire.

* * *

She's laughing. Yennefer is practically torturing him, and she's laughing.

He hisses again as Yen presses her hands over his arm and then he growls for good measure. He’s sure that if he were a piece of meat for her to butcher with a knife, then maybe she would’ve been kinder.

"Could you _please_ stop whining? I'm trying to work here!" She practically screams in his over-sensitive ears.

He growls again. "I would if you didn't have the delicacy of a fucking cockatrice! Fuck!" He actually moves his arm away from her this time.

"Watch your fucking language!"

Ciri laughs harder. Brat. But he’s glad. In the months they’ve known each other, this is the first time he’s heard her laugh. He doesn’t know how to fix that, how to bring genuine joy and light to her life, but if this is what it takes to make her laugh then he’ll gladly endure it.

Yennefer huffs, relenting. "Aren't you supposed to be used to the pain? You’re a witcher. I know you've been through worse than this."

Geralt sighs. Yennefer’s right, he has been through a lot worse than a simple gash in his arm, a lot worse than the pain of magic healing, no matter how harsh his supposed "healer" is. He should be used to it.

He had gone to the nearest village looking for a contract he could take. They were running low on coin, Ciri needed a new cloak and Yen didn't use her magic unless it was strictly necessary, still slowly recovering from Sodden. They needed money if they wanted to survive on anything other than squirrels and rabbits. They needed supplies if they wanted to make it to Kaer Morhen alive.

The contract was simple. A pack of drowners in the river, people mysteriously disappearing after going fishing and angry poor families wanting revenge for the loved ones they have lost in the water. A small job for a small amount of coin, but it was better than nothing.

He finished it without much trouble, earning only a small but deep gash on his arm, too near to his elbow. Even with his fast healing, if it healed and scarred wrong it could affect his mobility permanently. They decided then that the best thing they could do was to get Yen to take care of it. The wound would heal properly, and it was simple enough that she wouldn’t be drained by using her magic on it. It’s the right choice and honestly, he knows she's right. A cut that size doesn't hurt that much. And as painful as the healing could be, he had worse.

And yet, he can't help but to expect soft touches he once had; the quiet apologies as he's stitched back together; to be held until his senses go back to normal, focusing on the warm arms around him, the beating heart beneath his ear and the scent of bread, chamomile and home drowning out the smell of the rest of the world; to know that he's safe and cared for. That, even though he can handle the pain, he deserves soft touches on his rough skin. That he deserves kindness in his life.

Maybe he was wrong all along.

"Just get on with it," he spats and grits his teeth, feeling the meat and skin closing up from the inside.

* * *

_He spent the entire afternoon, night and more waiting for Geralt to come back. Essi, who's more like a twin sister than a friend at that point, had told him on several occasions that each winter he spent in Oxenfurt he acted more like an abandoned puppy waiting for his master to come back than a Master of the Seven Liberalt Arts and a viscount. Each time, he tsked, called it nonsense and changed the subject. He wasn't an animal, thank you very much._

_Now, sitting down on a chair and staring through the window, picking the skin of his fingers and wondering if he should get a horse and go after the witcher, he manages to see the resemblance._

_The sun would rise in a couple of hours.There's not a single soul on the quiet streets, and he'll make a hole in the floor if his leg keeps bouncing up and down. He hates this. Hates not knowing if his best friend is even alive, hates the anxiety of not knowing what to do: stay like he promised or run after him. Hates feeling this… useless and helpless. Hates feeling like no matter what he does, it’ll be the wrong thing to do and he’ll ruin everything._

_Hates feeling like Geralt takes a little piece of his heart each time he leaves. Hates that he would willingly give it to him, if he ever asks. Hates the mere thought of never seeing those golden eyes again._

_Jaskier's heart nearly stops twice in the morning before the sun is even up. First, when he hears the door open with a loud bang. He feels like the brick on his chest is finally lifted, though, when he turns and sees Geralt, apparently alive, standing in the doorframe._

_The second time his heart stops is when Geralt limps through the door and falls unconscious on the floor, a small pool of blood slowly growing under him._

_He freezes for three seconds. No matter the times he's seen Geralt injured and unconscious, it never gets easier to see his friend (his love) like this. But unlike in the past, when he was an inexperienced boy who passed out at the sight of a broken bone, he only freezes for three seconds._

_Jaskier takes a deep breath, ignores the panic, swallows the fear, and gets to work._

_He doesn't see those golden eyes until noon, when he wakes up in the middle of having his abdomen stitched._

_He dragged Geralt's limp, bloody and offensively heavy body across the cottage and onto his own bedroom, where he keeps his first aid supplies. He'll have to buy new sheets, the old ones now ruined with copious amounts of blood from various sources he’d rather not think about. He might have to change the mattress, too. Geralt's lucky the fiend didn't manage to reach any organ. The wound itself isn’t as bad as it could be, and he’d seen him survive much worse, but it was bad enough to get him unconscious; deep and messy, muscle torn in his abdomen. Given the state of Geralt’s clothes, he must have bled all the way back._

_He should have gone with him._

_As he presses a piece of cloth on the wound to stop the bleeding, he can’t help but feel responsible for it, to think that maybe if he had followed Geralt anyway, he might have been able to help. To stay away from the fight but to be close enough to be useful._

_As he starts cleaning the wound, though, he thinks about all the years Geralt spent (and survived) without help before they first met. The witcher should have been able to stop the bleeding, should he have bandages and the right potion. He frowns at the thought and bows to ask him about it later._

_As he’s about to finish the stitches, and he’s honestly very proud of his work, Geralt begins to stir._

_Lately, each time Geralt wakes up from being unconscious, he wakes up slowly. Which is a bit odd, since he's the type of witcher who sleeps very lightly and wakes up very fast, starting every day at the crack of dawn. This time, just like each time they’re in this kind of situation the last couple of months, he wakes up and he stares. At him._

_Jaskier is getting old, there's nothing he can do about that matter. Even if his body still looks and feels the same as it did when he was twenty-five, a fact he's not ready to think about and research, he's turning forty next month. With age, comes the wisdom. And he's old and wise enough to let his hopes get high and think that there's awe and adoration in Geralt's eyes. If age refuses to kill him, his foolish heart might do the trick. The witcher's simply groggy and confused from the potions, the blood loss and the exhaustion from the hunt. Those are things, Jaskier can deal with._

_"Good morning, sleeping beauty," he says in a gentle voice, knowing not to overwhelm his senses._

_Geralt grunts. That's also something he can deal with._

_"I'm almost done here," he says, getting back to work. "I'm no healer or mage, you already know that, but it's better than nothing. Your guts are alright. As ugly as it looks, the wound is not that deep and now it’ll scar nice and smooth."_

_"It's fine," Geralt says, still staring. He didn't expect him to talk so soon. Usually it takes his senses a couple hours to settle enough, and the sound of his own voice often makes his head ache. "Healers will often steal your money and sell you salves made of grass and spit. Mages are always too rough."_

_"Oh, I’m sure you would take harsh treatment from sexy sorceresses," he teases, because if he takes Geralt's words seriously then his heart might give out for good. So he doesn't. He doesn't think of the implication that maybe, just maybe, after decades of trying to convince the witcher that he deserves soft things in his life, he's finally succeeding. Doesn’t dare to think that it’s under his hands where the witcher finally finds peace and doesn’t dare to think that maybe, just maybe, he finally found something more._

_Geralt doesn’t reply. He keeps staring, and Jaskier keeps on sewing._

* * *

“All done, princess,” Yen says, patting his healed arm a little too hard. He growls again and yanks it out of her reach. He’s definitely not pouting.

“Hey, princesses are tough,” Ciri argues, crossing her arms and definitely pouting.

“Ciri’s right, Yen. Princesses are tough,” Geralt agrees smugly. 

“Fine. All done, sad grumpy little witcher,” Ciri snorts again. His own Child Surprise, laughing at him. The betrayal is unbearable. “You can go back to your brooding now,” she stands up and gets in her own bedroll, him and the kid following her example. 

“I know what will make you feel better,” Ciri says after a few minutes of silence, turning around to face him from where she’s laying between Yennefer and himself. Not being able to keep the fire burning as they sleep, since they don’t want to draw unwanted attention to them, makes the late summer night chillier than normal. A little sacrifice for safety they compensate by cuddling next to each other. They almost start to look like a family. Small and incomplete, but still a family.

“A new sexy nurse?” Ciri snorts. Yen blows raspberries at him. 

He sighs; they’re both getting too soft around the edges. Ciri’s getting them both too soft around the edges. It was both a silent agreement and a surprise for them how they started to change the way they carry themself. The kid doesn’t need the weight of their past and trauma on top of hers. 

“No,” she says while rolling her eyes, the quirk as endearing as it is familiar. “A song.”

He turns his head towards her, arching an eyebrow. “Which one?”

* * *

_“Alright! All you have to do now is rest. I’ll, uh... go prepare lunch, I can reheat it for you when you wake up.” He says as he stands awkwardly by the bed Geralt is currently laying on._

_“Hm.”_

_“And please,” he begs, “if you need anything, anything at all, just call me. Please. The wound should be somewhat closed once you wake up but you’ll pull on the stitches if you move before that.”_

_“Yes, doctor,” the bastard smirks, albeit fondly._

_He points at him with his pointing finger, pointingly. “You, Sir… are a terrible patient.”_

_“You’re hurting my feelings.”_

_“I worked really hard to make those stitches perfect. I’ll hurt more than your feelings if you ruin them.”_

_“No, you won’t.”_

_He sighs. No, he won't. “Do you need anything else?”_

_“Warm milk and a lullaby, mom.” He’s teasing. He knows he’s teasing. For all that he whines and grunts about not needing anyone, their friendship grew across the years, the bard and the witcher getting closer and closer, more comfortable around each other. And still, Geralt doesn’t really know how to deal with the fact that someone is willing to care for him. So he teases, as if offering bare necessities was a form of overprotectiveness. Jaskier won’t miss on the chance to tease back, though. If he has to bully him into accepting affection, then so be it. It’s on._

_“Oh, you are so going to regret this,” he whispers and scrambles to his room to grab his lute, Geralt calling for him and claiming it was a joke. What a fool. He keeps ignoring the witcher’s complaints and seats himself in a nearby chair, getting in position. “Alright, I don’t have milk at the moment, but I do know a few lullabies.”_

_“Jask-”_

_“Hush. Now, let’s see if I remember this one…”_

_~ Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,_

_Go to sleepy little baby.~_

_“I’m not a baby.” Geralt doesn’t pout, but it’s a close thing. Jaskier shushes him anyway._

_~When you wake, you shall have,_

_All the pretty little horses.~_

_“Already have one.” The bastard smiles._

_“Geralt!” He points at him again. “Bad witcher! Keep quiet!”_

_~Oh, how lovely is the evening,_

_Is the evening~_

_“The sun is up, though.” Even without looking at him, he could feel the smirk on that irritatingly beautiful face. But he does look. He glares at him. Without talking, he says with his eyes “Cut it out or I’ll put peppers on your stew.” Without hearing his demand, Geralt listens and keeps quiet._

_Jaskier also stays silent, for a while. Maybe Geralt really doesn’t want him to sing. Maybe he’s bothering him when he really should compensate for the lack of luxuries he can’t offer by giving him his space to rest and heal. And even if Geralt doesn’t show real annoyance, maybe he’s tolerating him for his sake._

_He takes a deep breath. He didn’t travel with a witcher for acting like a coward over a song. One last time, he thinks, I’ll sing one last time and if he asks me to stop, then I will._

_“Jask…” He must have stayed silent for too long, if the mild worry in Geralt’s voice is anything to go by._

_“Hush, I’m thinking.” He half pretends._

_Don’t hurt yourself. It’s what the witcher should say but for some reason he keeps his teasing for himself._

_Softly, he strums his lute and sings._

* * *

“I know one.” Ciri starts to sing, her voice too high pitched and wavering, and Geralt’s heart freezes.

* * *

_~Oh, joys arise, the Sun has come again to hold you_

_Sailing out the doldrums of the week_

_The polyphonic prayer is here, it's all around you_

_It's all around you out here.~_

_Geralt, for once, expresses no complaints against the lullaby. Well, a waking song more than a lullaby. Ciri’s waking song, one he wrote for her when she was six years old and was going through the “I don’t want to get in bed” and the “I don’t want to get out of bed” phases. At the same time. Geralt doesn’t show the wide smile that Ciri gifts him each time he wakes her with it. Nonetheless, his eyes, always staring at him, slowly begin to drop._

_So he keeps on singing, putting his heart on his voice. He closes his eyes for a bit, not wanting to face the world for a little while. He sings and imagines that this is Ciri who he’s singing to, that little girl who loves him so much, and not Geralt, the witcher who will never reciprocate._

_~And if the whole world is crashing down on you_

_Fall through space, out of mind with me_

_Where the emptiness we leave behind on warm air rising_

_Blows all the shadows far away.~_

_~The falling of the whole empire-_

_At the sound of soft snoring, he stops and finds Geralt sound asleep when he looks up. His heart melts and breaks a bit at the sight, and he rests his lute against the wall to get up and fix the blanket around the witcher. Without playing, he finishes his song in a whisper._

_~-is here to hold you…~_

* * *

~... Rolling out and hunted ‘till it sleeps.~

Whoever spread the rumor that witchers don’t feel, was kicked in the head by a donkey as a kid. Twice. And then dropped down a cliff.

Geralt’s frozen in his place, staring at the night sky and trying to figure out exactly what he’s feeling. 

He fails. His chest feels like it'll explode in seconds.

“Geralt?” Ciri asks, prompted by his silence.

“Where… where did you learn that song, Ciri?” He turns to her, confusion painted all over his face.

“At home. My favorite bard used to sing it to wake me up when he stayed with me the week of my birthday each year. Sometimes even more,” a soft smile creeps up her face, nostalgic and clearly fond of the memories. It’s not common to see her content when thinking of the past.

“And who is this bard?” He asks, trying not to sound eager to know. Yennefer huffs, the answer obvious to her.

“Master Jaskier… Why?” she asks, connecting the dots. “Did you know him?”

Of course. Of course it was Jaskier. It makes perfect sense. Each year when he left the path in spring, needing to take care of ‘family matters’, of course he was checking on the kid Geralt tried to avoid at all cost. He should feel betrayed or lied to. He feels relief instead. To know Ciri was looked after by someone he trusted with his life. To know that, even for a couple times a year, Ciri’s life was filled with the same music and light his own life had been blessed with.

_If life could give me one blessing-_

“Yes, he’s my…”, he hesitates, not sure of their status anymore after… Well. “We were friends, but I think he’s not fond of me anymore.”

“Why?”

“We had a fight the last time we saw each other. We didn’t leave on good terms.”

“Oh, ”she says and he thinks that’ll be the end of it. “I’m sure he’s dead anyway,” she says instead and he feels like he’s choking in anxiety and the worst kind of fear, cold sweat running down his back. 

No.

“What do you mean,” he demands rather than asks and sits up to look at Ciri, frowning with worry. 

Ciri lowered her gaze with a haunted expression and he hates himself even more for not being able to bring any comfort to her. “I mean, everyone at every court knew he was like family to me, and if Nilfgaard is trying to find me, then…”

He wants- no, he _needs_ to tell her that she’s wrong. He needs to assure her, to ease her worry and tell her that Jaskier is alive somewhere, singing, teaching or composing stupid songs about goats. Enjoying life like he always does. Anything to make her feel better.

But what if-

What if he’s…

“Nonsense,” Yen sits up on her bedroll, looking at the girl. “I also know Jaskier and I can assure you, Ciri, that lucky stupid bard is like a weed. Stubborn and impossible to kill. Quite literally, sometimes. If there’s anyone who can survive war, death, sickness, and famine, that’s him.” She sounds so sure of what she’s saying that it’s almost easy to believe her.

“ _Say something,_ ” she says in his mind, glaring at him.

“She’s right,” he says, remembering who needs the comfort here. “He must be back home, or in Oxenfurt. Drinking and dancing on with his friends, like he always does,” he tries to sound convincing for her, even if he’s also trying to convince himself. “He’s alive.”

“You think?” Ciri asks, pleading with her eyes for him to tell the truth.

He hopes he’s right. He _prays_ he’s right.

“I'm sure,” he says in the end, giving her one of his rare smiles he saves only for her.

After a pause where she seems lost in thought, she lies back again and they all settle for the night, curling around her. “He’s alive”, she affirms as if voicing the fact out loud would make it real. Geralt wishes it was that easy. Still, some of the tension eases from her. Small victories.

“He’s alive,” he repeats and listens as his little family slowly falls asleep. He doesn’t. His heart pounds on his ears and his throat twists on itself.

_What if he’s dead?_

_If life could give me one blessing-_

* * *

Geralt knows pain.

He knows what it is: a highly unpleasant physical sensation caused by illness or injury. It’s the first thing witchers learned at their own schools, the first thing that he learned at Kaer Morhen. It’s also the first thing their mentors taught; mainly because it was the first thing they would experience. “You will train more than any knight of any kingdom. You’ll go through the trials. The very few who survive will become witchers. Those who do will learn what true pain is. Get used to it.” Discouraging, yes. But true.

Those words are the first thing that he thinks about as he crosses the portal and falls onto the hard cold ground right after. 

They were too relaxed and all they wanted was to eat and sleep. He didn’t think much of it when he saw the innkeeper talking to those two men hidden in black cloaks. By the time he realized something was amiss the inn was surrounded by Nilfgaardian soldiers. Yen managed to get them through a portal, but the confrontation was inevitable.

He should have noticed.

Yen and Ciri are trying to get him on his feet. They scream things at him, but he can’t make out the words. He wishes he could. The sky above growls furiously with thunder, a warning of the storm that’s about to break upon them.

His vision is starting to fail and his hand alone is not enough to stop the bleeding. Everything is going too fast and too slow at the same time, trees and rain and life too blurry to make out the shapes of them. He vaguely recognizes Yen’s snarls and he thinks he sees Ciri running before the world turns black under his eyes. He can’t feel anything on his injured leg, only burning pain that’s starting to spread through his body. If the numbing agony comes from the blood loss or the poison on the blade that inflicted it, he doesn't know, and his mind is too foggy to dwell on it.

He remembers the words now, clear as day, and it's not only related to the gaping wound on his thigh. 

This pain took root inside his chest and mind years ago like an ivy tangled in his heart with a vicious grip. If he weren’t dying, he would be very proud of that metaphor. Maybe that was the problem. He was too proud back then to realize that what he was feeling was sorrow and pain, yearning. Deep loneliness even in the company of his beloved family. A missing part; his little wandering piece of home.

How he wishes to see his face again.

He must have passed out for a moment because he didn’t sense the stranger who was currently manhandling him. This person grabs his arm and puts it around their own wide shoulders, supporting his weight as they help him stand up without stepping with his wounded leg. He tries to open up his eyes, see where he is, where Ciri is, but he can’t focus. He recognizes some scents before passing out. The smell of salt and the faint ozone of magic reach his nose. The cold smell of the ending of autumn.

Bread, chamomile, and home.

* * *

Geralt wakes up slowly, on a warm bed, semi-naked and with a needle piercing through the flesh of his leg.

His brain is slow to catch up with what little information his senses are providing him. He’s disoriented and the world seems distorted as if he’s seeing everything from the other side of a window that’s slightly tilted to the side. His eyes roam through the room he’s in, but they can’t focus on a single point. This place isn’t one he recognizes, but he _knows_ this place is familiar. A subconscious feeling, his sixth sense, tells him that he’s safe here.

His body doesn’t seem to agree. Everything feels uncomfortable. The bed under him is too hot and the air on his bare skin is too cold. His nose is filled with the smell of alcohol coming from his own skin and he knows someone (safe) is talking to him in a soothing manner, but it feels like he’s underwater. Just below the surface, but he can’t break through the barrier that keeps him away from the world. He can’t listen to this voice.

Suddenly, he realizes something. Yennefer. Ciri.They’re not there with him. 

Nilfgaard.

The needle pierces his skin once again and something in him _snaps_.

He flinches hard at the touch and yanks those hands away from his skin, holding them by the wrist with a strength his exhausted body shouldn't have. The needle is immediately dropped by its handler, and he manages to hear a muffled whimper before he realizes that the grip he holds on this person will cause bruises soon enough. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know where he is or what happened to Ciri. His head is dizzy and his mind confused and he can’t _breathe_.

Then, he listens. “Calm down. Geralt- It’s me. It’s me.”

Geralt stills. He forces his eyes to focus on icy blue eyes. After staring for a long while, his iron grip on the wrists (so soft, so delicate) falls. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, he breathes. He’s alive. “Jaskier?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” the bard keeps his expression calm and patient but it feels impersonal, cold. As if he were addressing a kid who misbehaved rather than a two-decades-long friend. Geralt feels like the former but stares at his face nonetheless. “You’re lucky Yen managed to bring you all here.” He grabs the needle again and returns to his work. Geralt doesn’t flinch at all this time. Jaskier’s always been good at first aids. Soft and kind.

“Jaskier…” he repeats, just for the sake of feeling his name on his lips.

The bard sighs. “Yes, Geralt. It's me,” his voice keeps the same monotonous tone. Geralt frowns. Is he angry with him? What did he do?

Oh. Oh, right.

The mountain.

“You saved me?” He must have. And if he’s saved him, then maybe he doesn’t hate him that much. Maybe not everything is lost. Maybe he can fix it. 

His bard stills and for a moment he fears he might have said something wrong. Yet, Jaskier places his gentle and blessedly cold palm against his forehead, and Geralt feels finally at home. He leans into it and stares at those blue eyes he loves so much, relaxing and feeling like he might cry at the same time. How he missed his touch, and his voice, and his face. 

Oh, how he missed him.

He barely registers what he’s being told next, dizzy from the longing, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t listen to each and every word Jaskier speaks. “Your fever’s getting worse,” he sighs. “You’re lucky Roach still had your potion bag tied to the saddle. You would be dead by now if she hadn’t.” Geralt whines and frowns sadly when Jaskier retrieves his hand and moves back to the wound on his leg. “The blade that cut you was poisoned. That’s why you passed out and why the wound got an infection in mere hours,” he explains in a clinical way, “so I gave you Golden Oriole. The effect of the poison should wear off soon. Once I’m finished here, I’ll give you Swallow, and I’ll stop bothering you. Let you rest.”

His eyes nearly tear up at that. “You’ll leave me?” He asks so quietly and fears that Jaskier might not have heard him.

He did hear him if the defeated sigh that leaves his lips is anything to go by. “No, Geralt. I won’t leave you. Just- You need rest to recover. And I need to make something to eat before Ciri sets the kitchen on fire.”

Ciri.

_Cirilla._

He moves to stand up, even if it makes his whole body ache. “Ciri.” He needs to know where she is. Needs to know if she’s hurt. If she needs him. If-

He doesn’t get too far, for he’s unable to fight against the hand on his chest urging him to lay back down. Then Jaskier speaks and he can’t not listen to him. He looks at him in the eyes with a calm expression and speaks as if talking to a cornered horse. “She’s safe. Ciri’s safe and unharmed. She took a bath and she’s currently making a mess with my cooking supplies. She’s only a bit shaken up. You did collapse in front of her after all.”

Geralt stares back into the wild blue yonder, looking for the truth. But it’s not necessary. Jaskier would never lie to him. In twenty years, he only spoke to him with the truth. He can trust him. Geralt never stopped trusting him. So he relents and lies back on the bed with a sigh. “And Yen?”

Something shifts in Jaskier’s face. “She’s also fine. She’s resting in my bed. The portal took a lot of energy from her. Ciri refused to leave her side until I told her she could be more useful if she prepared something to eat,” he says with a sad smile. Relief washes over him but it doesn’t last long. Jaskier looks sad. Why is he sad? Jaskier should never be sad.

A wave of anxiety ripples through him. “Are you sad?”

The bard’s expression is unreadable as he inhales deeply and rolls his shoulders a bit. “No, no. I’m just tired.”

Geralt knows he should leave it there. But he can’t. He feels like there’s something broken between them and he can’t ignore it. He needs to fix it. “Are you mad at me?”

At that, Jaskier sighs and rubs his face with one of his hands. “No, Geralt. I’m not mad at you.”

“You should be,” he says. Jaskier ignores him and proceeds to put salve on Geralt’s already stitched wound. “I hurt you.”

“Geralt…” Jaskier warns him.

“I know I fucked up, Jask…" For once, Jaskier remains quiet as he stands up to look for something. He's not sure if it's a good thing or not. He continues anyway. "I miss you…" the bard turns to face him, bandages in his hands, with big and almost vulnerable eyes. "You… you're missing from me. You make me a person. Less of a monster, at least," he tries his hardest to explain, but he feels like he's already failing. "Ciri makes me a father. Yen makes me... look like an idiot," that part makes the smallest smile appear on Jaskier's face. He really misses that smile. "But with you, I… I'm forced to admit how human I am. You let me feel…" he presses a hand on his chest, right above the heart, "you make me feel things I never felt before. You make me want things witchers aren't supposed to want."

He pauses for a bit, trying to gather the words he needs in his head. Jaskier takes that as an opportunity to sit down again and gently, oh so gently, he bandages his thigh. As he thinks what he's going to say next, Geralt studies the room they're in. It looks warm, lit by a tiny fireplace in the corner and nearly a dozen oil lamps. Geralt almost smiles at that; Jaskier’s never been fond of the dark. There's a storm raging outside, rattling the windows as if giving out a warning: "Don't come out. Stay there while you can. Safe and warm."

But he can't keep hiding from his problems. He needs to fix this now. To tell him that he loves him. He needs to face the storm.

"You don't see a monster when you see me. At least you didn't… before. I'm nothing but a monster when you're away because I'm not whole. There was something I lost before I met you. You filled that empty spot in me but now you're missing from me. And I don't want to feel like a monster anymore. I don't want to miss you anymore."

Jaskier stands up once he's done with the bandage. He fucked up again.

"I'm sorry," he nearly screams in desperation. "I hurt you. I know you hate me and I lost you but just- I'm sorry."

Jaskier comes back with a vial in his hand. A potion, although he can't remember which one it was. But he knows that no matter the content of the potion, he'll lose consciousness after drinking it. His body's too tired, too exerted to be able to handle a potion awake. It's now or never.

"Jaskier, I lo-"

"Drink," Jaskier interrupts him harshly, holding the opened vial in front of his mouth. He looks sadder than before.

"Please, Jask…"

"Don't. Just… Just drink it," he repeats it. "You have a fever and you lost blood. Your mind is not clear right now. Drink it and we can talk when you wake up."

"But-"

"Please, Geralt," he pleads, looking vulnerable and hurt. He put that expression on his face. He hurt him.

So he obeys.

* * *

Geralt wakes up slowly. This time, his brain follows and it cooperates when he tries to take stock of his surroundings.

First, he feels the pain, mild but there. A quick look at his leg and a sniff tell him that someone took the time to clean, stitch and bandage the wound. He’s also laying on a bed, that much is obvious, nearly naked and covered in blankets. He relaxes when he manages to recognize the room. This is Jaskier’s cottage. If they’re with Jaskier, then they’re safe.

Or not.

Maybe they brought Nilfgaard right on the bard’s door.

He throws the blankets off himself and gets up, forgetting about his injured leg, protectiveness, and determination working as fuel. A burning pain forces him to remember, though, about his injured leg when he takes the first step towards the door. His knees wobble and searching for something to hold on to he tumbles down a chair. Loudly. He grimaces and sighs. 

Fuck. Goodbye to the surprise factor, then.

Geralt braces himself against the wall when he hears hurried footsteps outside the door, readying himself for whatever is on the other side.

“Geralt!” Jaskier screams as he comes in running through the door, Cirilla and Yennefer close behind him. All of them sigh with relief.

Geralt smiles as he looks at them, warmth and relief washing over him. His little family, now complete.

“Get in the freaking bed right now or I’ll put peppers on your stew!” Jaskier points at him with a finger, frowning. Geralt’s smile disappears.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, feeling guilty, and does as he’s told, sitting on the bed and being thrown back to his early childhood in Kaer Morhen when Vesemir used to scold him for not washing behind his ears. 

“Don’t scare us like that,” Ciri scolds him too, approaching him to hug. He returns the hug, whispering apologies into her now clean and untangled hair. 

“Are you all okay? What happened with Nilfgaard?”

“We’re fine,” Yen answers, crossing her arms while Jaskier leaves the room. “I put guards in this place some time ago. Magic usage here is untraceable, so even if Nilfgaard can track where the portal originated, they won’t be able to know where the other end of it ended up. We’re safe here.”

“You three can stay here for as long as you want,” Jaskier says, coming back with a mug full of water. “I can stay in the university dorms to leave this place to yourselves. I would need to come to bring in supplies, but it’ll be like I’m not even here.”

“Stay,” Geralt and Ciri say at the same time. Yen chuckles.

"Uh… Alright?" he says, awkwardly. “I just thought that, since this cottage is too small-”

“I like it,” Geralt says quickly, because if he stops to think then he’ll lose the courage to speak. “It’s simple. I like simple. Cozy… place.”

“... Right,” he says skeptically and hands Geralt the mug. He drinks, hoping the cold of the water will keep his blush at bay.

“Still, you can’t leave,” Ciri says, standing in front of him with her arms crossed. “I missed you. And Geralt wanted a new sexy nurse anyway.”

Geralt spits and chokes on the water. Jaskier gapes at the kid. Yennefer snorts loudly.

"Come, Ciri. I'm sure we can reheat a stew," Yen says, trying not to laugh and urging the girl to follow her, leaving both Jaskier and Geralt alone in the room. Silent. It feels awkward. Geralt looks, really looks at Jaskier this time. He looks… not old, but defeated. The light he used to carry is now gone, a coldness around him replacing it.

"Uh… I - I know this wasn't really in your plans," the bard says, not nervous but resigned. "But I'll try to stay out of your way as much as I can."

And then he moves to leave, all his hope leaving with him.

He can’t lose him again.

"I meant what I said," he hurries to say before Jaskier can get out of the room. He doesn't turn around, but he doesn't move to leave either. This is his last chance. "What I said last night, I meant it. All of it."

"No, you didn’t."

"Jask…"

The bard turns then, with cold eyes and a deep frown, his tone not angry but stern. "Deny it all you want, but I know you, Geralt. You wouldn't have said a single word to me if it wasn't for the poison."

He's right. Geralt has never been brave in matters of the heart. Always kept things to himself, guarding his words as if each time he let them out he grew more and more vulnerable.

"Let me say it now," he begs. "Please."

He stays silent for a moment where Geralt holds his breath, and his hope comes back when Jaskier sits on the chair, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. So near and so far away at the same time.

He needed to be brave now.

"When I said those things on the mountain... I did mean it, back then," he almost backtracks when he sees Jaskier's face contorts with sorrow, but he needs to be honest. Jaskier deserves only the truth. "Please, let me explain.” So he looks inside, prays to any god to help him find the right words. He needs to fix it.

“You… Because of you, in the last years, I began to believe that I could want things, that I could have things. So when I fucked things up with Yen, I blamed you. Not for being the reason for my misery, you’ve only brought happiness to my life. I blamed you for making me believe that I deserved to be happy. I thought I was a fool for believing that I deserved good things, that I deserved love. I pushed you away because I thought I didn’t deserve you either."

"Geralt…" He sounds so pained, almost pitiful. If that’s all he can feel for him now, he’ll accept his fate.

“Then Ciri found me and… Gods, I love her so much. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me in my life, Jask. And Yen… Even if we’re not lovers anymore she’s still so important for me." Jaskier looks up at this, his eyes wide. "What I mean is that all the good things I have now, all these blessings, I have them because of you"

In twenty years of friendship, he's never seen Jaskier out of words until now. He looks so small and lost. A perfect mirror of how he’s feeling inside. So small, and so lost. A tiny boat in the middle of the ocean, hoping not to sink.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you away. You deserved more than what I said, how I treated you. I know you hate me, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, I don’t deserve it, but I want you to know that I’m really sorry.”

“I… I don’t hate you, Geralt,” he looks up at him with tears on his eyes, struggling to keep them from falling. “I shouldn’t have pushed you when you were obviously hurt. I’m sorry. You had told me time and time again that we’re not friends and you didn’t want me around that I- I didn’t want to be a bother to you anymore.”

“No. No,” he reaches out to grab his hand and counts it as a small win when Jaskier accepts it. “You were never a bother, Jask. My life is always better when you’re around.”

“Ok,” he says, nodding slowly. His grip on his hand tightens.

It’s then when he notices the bruises. Dark purple rings around Jaskier’s wrist like violent bracelets. He did that to him. It’s the only thing he’s good at, hurting the ones he loves. “I’m so sorry,” he says, caressing the tender skin with his thumb.

“Don’t worry about it,” and for the first time that day, he genuinely smiles at him. “I would have done the same.”

* * *

_“You don’t have to go, you know?” Jaskier asks for the ninth time that afternoon._

_“Jask…” Geralt warns as he ties his belongings to Roach. He’s losing his patience. Good. Maybe that way he can get some common sense in that thick stubborn head._

_“Am I wrong to believe that you’re in no condition to travel north on your own?” He gestures widely with his arms. He’s also losing his damned patience._

_“Yes.”_

_“Yes? Oh, so I’m wrong. You’re definitely not in pain, you’re safe to take on contracts because you’ll starve otherwise if you don’t, you‘ll make it unharmed to Kaedwen and then you will definitely not die on the trek up The Killer, named like that because it’s so dangerous that even perfectly healthy witchers have died there.” When Geralt doesn’t seem to listen, he sighs. He hasn’t slept in two days to keep Geralt alive, all for nothing. He’s so fucking tired. “Right. How could I think otherwise? I must be a fucking idiot.”_

_That last part seems to do the trick, because Geralt relents. “Stop worrying about me.”_

_A small part of Jaskier’s soul breaks at that. “You can’t ask me that,” he says softly._

_Geralt stays quiet for a moment, a moment where Jaskier holds his breath. “I have nowhere else to go.”_

_Jaskier now finds himself torn between two options. To let him go and pray for the witcher to make it to Kaer Morhen in one piece, or to step into the river and pray that the current doesn’t drown him. It’s dangerous, what he’s about to offer. It’s to give a piece of himself he was never willing to give. But what does he have to lose? His heart is already in Geralt’s hands, even if he never notices._

_“Stay with me?”_

_The witcher turns around at that, his expression unreadable, almost surprised, and stares into his eyes. Jaskier gulps and his hands start to sweat._

_“I- I know you and Yen fought the last time you met, so I don’t think she would let you winter with her, but you could stay with me. It’s not much, and the cottage is not exactly big or fancy,” he rambles and scrambles to find the right words. He can feel his heart beating in his throat. “But you could take on a few contracts around Oxenfurt to kill time. I know there aren’t a lot of monsters in winter, but I have a teaching position and I earn enough money for both of us and-”_

_“I can’t.”_

_“You… you can’t?” He frowns and tries, gods, he tries his hardest not to show how hurt he really is. Just like with everything he is, he prays it’s good enough._

_“I can’t stay here,” Geralt replies with that expression he uses when he’s too serious about something and wants to leave no room for arguments. “This is your place, not mine. I need to go back to Kaer Morhen.” He doesn’t wait for a response. He gets on top of Roach, gritting his teeth in a weak attempt to keep himself from grunting from the pain._

_They look at each other for a while before Geralt nods and urges the mare to move. He doesn’t even say goodbye and Jaskier stays frozen in his place, trying not to cry at the fact that Geralt would rather put himself in mortal danger than to stay with him. Tears well upon his eyes nonetheless. He doesn’t let them fall._

_“Geralt!” He nearly screams before Geralt gets too far away. The witcher stops and turns to him. “I heard the rumor that there's a need for a witcher in the Caingorn Mountains. Something about a dragon. We can meet there, maybe?” He says. And between lines, he says something more._

_Please stay alive. Come back to me. Let me be useful to you one more time._

_Geralt nods._

* * *

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier says, walking towards the door.

They all had dinner together in Geralt’s room since he’s officially bedridden until further notice. After dinner, Jaskier stayed in his room to chat. It was good. They talked about his time as Ciri’s bard. They also talked about his and Yennefer’s miraculous friendship, how they bonded over a special idiotic witcher who hurt them, and how Yen protected his house with guards and sent him regular magical letters.

It was fantastic. Until the time to sleep came.

“Where are you going?” He asks dumbly. Things are still a bit awkward between them, both of them trying to relearn how to act with these new versions of each other, but he thought…

“What do you mean?” Jaskier tilts his head to the side in confusion.

“Uh…” Fuck. “You don’t have where to sleep. Ciri and Yen are in your bedroom.”

“I can sleep on the sofa.”

Geralt smirks. “By the time you’re done getting all your books and papers off of that thing, it’ll already be dawn,” Jaskier snorts. “We can share.” Jaskier freezes again. Fuck!

“But… you’re injured.”

“It’s already closed. I have a great nurse,” he smiles when he sees the bard blush. And beams when Jaskier gets in the bed when Geralt scoots over one side.

It’s… uncomfortable. Touches that were so casual and even expected once, are shy and awkward now. They eventually settle down face to face, with Geralt’s arm under the bard’s head. Neither of them really know what to say or even if they should say something.

So Geralt says what he’s been dying to say since he woke up in this cottage.

“We can’t stay here,” he mumbles. “I need to get Ciri to Kaer Morhen. It’s the safest place for her right now.”

“I know,” he replies with a sigh.

It’s now or never.

“Come with me.”

“What?” Jaskier whispers, his eyes wide with surprise.

“It’s dangerous. It’ll be hard to get there, the keep is cold, and my brothers are idiots at the best of times. We’ll need to keep a low profile. But Nilfgaard could come for you too because of your connection with Ciri and me.”

“So… you want to keep me safe?” He says in disbelief, his voice quiet and frail.

“Yes. I always do. But that’s not all. Ciri loves you. She missed you a lot and she needs you in her life. You can give her everything Yen and I can't give her,” he almost pleads. ”You bring life and music, and you teach her about the beauty of the world through your songs. She needs you… I need you too."

"Geralt..." even in the dark of the room, he can see the tears forming in Jaskier's eyes.

"I'll say it again if you need to hear it. I meant what I said last night. Every part. I’m only at home With you. In your hands. And I don't want to miss you anymore," he honestly, his voice filled with adoration and love.

"You have no idea how long I waited to hear those words," Jaskier says, his voice thick from the knot in his throat.

"I know. I'm so sorry."

Jaskier sniffs loudly and his lip trembles. Without thinking, Geralt wraps his arms around him, and Jaskier sobs freely on his chest. For a moment, Geralt thinks that the bard, always so expressive, lets go years of pain accumulated with each tear he sheds, wailing as a weight is lifted from his shoulders. He cries too, quietly, thinking about how many of those tears are for him, and bows to never let him go again unless he wants to.

They hold on to each other even when the tears are long dry, and they stay quiet for a while, enjoying the new and fragile peace between them.

When they do talk again, they don't even move an inch away from the other.

"We can't go back to how we were before, Geralt.” He mumbles quietly, his voice still rough from crying. “I can't go back to how I was before."

"I know. I would never expect that from you."

"I can't spend every day by your side, wondering when you'll get tired of me and leave me in the nearest town."

That’s fair. "I'll never do that again. I'll never take you for granted again."

“But I don’t expect you to just tolerate me. If I do something that truly bothers you, I expect you to tell me.”

“Alright. I’ll count on you to listen when I tell you. I hope you do the same with me.”

“Of course.”

He can work with that. They’ll both work on their relationship, on their friendship. He hopes it’ll work better this time.

But there’s another issue they need to talk about, first. “Jaskier… You have to know that no matter how much I care for you, Ciri will always be my top priority. This doesn’t mean that-”

“Geralt.” The seriousness in his voice nearly makes him flinch.

“What?”

“Look at me in the eyes,” he says and grabs his face with both his hands. He stares at him for a long time before he speaks, and he can already tell Jaskier isn't messing around. “I would kill you without a doubt if I’m sure that would keep Cirilla safe.”

Something warm and deep blooms in Geralt’s chest and belly. Like butterflies. Or rats. He could never ask for more. “Thank you, Jask.”

“Don’t be. I’ll make sure to make it quick.” After a pause, he adds. “Geralt?”

“Yeah?”

“You… really meant what you said last night?”

“...Yes.”

“What you were going to say, before I gave you the potion, did you also mean that?”

Ah, that.

_Jaskier, I lo-_

“Yes.”

“Tell me again.”

“Jaskier… I lobster you.”

They stare at each other for a long time before they both burst out laughing. “I hate you!” Jaskier tries to mockingly punch him in the chest, but Geralt doesn’t let him. He tickles him instead, making him scream with laughter.

“Shut up!” Yennefer screams from hers and Ciri’s room, which only makes them laugh harder, tears pricking their eyes. Happy tears, this time.

Without thinking, just like with every good decision in his life, Geralt grabs his bard’s face and kisses him. It’s short, a simple peck on his lips. Before he can backtrack and apologize, Jaskier leans on and kisses him again, this time deeper and longer. A kiss of two lost souls who have finally found each other.

They smile, pressing their foreheads together. They’re finally home.

“Mr. Lobster... Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Remember when you came here for a fiend, a couple of years ago?” He hums affirmatively and Jaskier continues. “You could have bandaged your abdomen and taken on a potion. Why did you bleed out all the way back?”

Ah, yes. That. He’s still ashamed about that hunt. “I... forgot to pack them,” he mumbles.

“You… you what? How?!”

“I forgot you weren’t coming with me,” he’s sure he does look red like a lobster now. “I got so used to you having the healing supplies at camp that I forgot to pack them myself.”

“Oh, dear,” Jaskier says in a loving tone and proceeds to kiss his nose. “I’m never letting you go on a hunt again without checking your saddles myself.”

“Hm,” he hums happily.

“So.. Ciri said something about a sexy nurse?”

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos and a comment if you enjoy it, even a short one or emojis!
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr!](https://chunilikeswitchers.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Or reblog this fic on tumblr [here!](https://chunilikeswitchers.tumblr.com/post/643942872104714240/in-your-hands)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
